Rooftop
by murderofonerose
Summary: Charles is back. Nathan doesn't know what to make of this.


**Warning:** I don't *guitar riff* out the swears. And, uh, there's some some mostly-nakedness and slash-if-you-squint.**  
Word Count:** 1381**  
Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Brutal.**  
Author Notes:** Inspired by the March special edition collectible card over on the Brutal Business lj comm. I kind of forgot most of the important details of the picture by the time I sat down and wrote this, because my memory has more holes in it than a couch owned by William Murderface, but the general idea was "they're on a rooftop" and "Charles looks hot in civvies."

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Rooftop**

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You were dead_. That's all he could think. It couldn't be Charles, because Charles was dead. Right? He was used to that being it. People didn't come back from the dead.

After the performance his band mates just seemed relieved, like maybe they understood things he didn't so they didn't have to wonder what the hell was going on. That just made him feel stupid and want to punch things, so he ignored them and growled questions at the roadies until someone, _finally_, knew where Charles had disappeared to while they'd finished the show. Nathan took the stairs up to the roof one at a time but at a stomping, furious pace. He wanted to know why Charles had been dead and now, suddenly, wasn't.

The door at the top of the stairs was heavy, but he pushed it open hard enough to swing out and hit the wall with a bang, loud as a gunshot. Nathan stepped outside, gravel crunching beneath his boots, and hesitated.

There wasn't any railing, just some waist-high steel beams jutting straight up from the sides of the building at regular intervals. Charles was standing next to (almost leaning against) one and looking out over the bay, at the now empty platforms and darkened stage, lit in faint outline from his left by the night glow of the city. It was quiet and cold and dark – completely alien after the light show and heavy music and rush of performance that Nathan had been wrapped up in for the past few hours.

"Hey," Nathan growled uncertainly, squinting in the dimness. "You… You're dead. You fucking died on us."

The door swung closed behind him with another bang.

Without turning, Charles simply said, "I'm afraid it couldn't be avoided."

Nathan scowled, both fists clenched tightly at his sides. "That's bullshit," he snapped. "You can't be dead and then not. So either you are, or you weren't. And either way you're being an asshole."

He was shocked to hear him laugh, even quietly. The shoulders of Charles' black leather jacket shook briefly – but Charles _never_ laughed. Charles never even smiled, unless he was sloppy drunk. This… Nathan didn't like this.

On one hand, he desperately wanted to not have to be responsible for everything anymore. Because he sucked at it, and that made him feel like shit. Every time he'd had to do something he didn't want to, his first thought was _That's Ofdensen's job_, and then the second thought was, _Shit, no it's not. Fuck_. When Charles had first burst through the door, Nathan could have shit himself with relief. He could've, but he hadn't. Punched that asshole record executive guy pretty fucking hard, though. That was something.

On the other hand, Charles had always been predictable. Blah blah blah you shouldn't do that, blah blah blah money, blah blah blah I'll take care of that. He combed his hair and wore glasses and put on the same suit every day.

Charles turned finally, facing him in half profile. "Well, I apologize for being an asshole, I suppose," he said. A faint, almost fond smile ghosted across his lips. "The five of you actually did better for yourselves than I was expecting. I thought I would have to come back sooner."

Nathan stared at him. This wasn't the same Charles. This Charles had hair in his glasses-less face and was wearing black leather. And _boots_, boots instead of dress shoes.

And what the hell was that supposed to mean, anyway?

"I _am_ back," Charles clarified. He met Nathan's stare with one of his own – calm, level, and in control. It was the kind of look that said everything was going to go back to normal now. _That_ was Charles. _That_ was actually reassuring.

Nathan dropped his gaze to the ground, kicking sullenly at the gravel. Maybe Charles wasn't completely different, but it was still going to take some getting used to. "Okay," he muttered. "Uh… good."

Charles nodded and looked out over the bay again, then stepped back from the edge. He was holding a neatly folded suit and tie in his other hand that Nathan hadn't been able to see before. "I suppose I should put this on and get back to work…"

"Yeah," Nathan replied quickly, "you should do that."

There was a long pause. After a minute Nathan crossed his arms stubbornly, because he'd come all the way up to the roof to find his manager and he wasn't going back down all those fucking stairs without him.

Charles raised an eyebrow at that, but balanced his neatly pressed clothes on top of the nearest beam and pulled his boots off without comment. He shrugged out of his jacket, folded it over one arm, and laid it on the gravel next to the boots.

As Charles pulled of his black t-shirt and folded it the same way, Nathan stared. He hadn't expected the lawyer to have as many scars as he did. Some of them looked like the knife scars Murderface had and liked to show off, except these were in places that would be really fucking bad to get stabbed in. Others he was pretty sure were from bullets, he'd learned that much watching TV – but there were fewer of those. Charles seemed to favor close-range injuries.

Nathan expected him to stop there and put the shirt and tie on, but he didn't. For a second Nathan looked away, focusing on the brightly-lit cityscape instead while Charles unzipped his jeans – but then he looked back, curious. He was hear, damn it, and he was going to watch this transformation from badass dead man to familiar businessman.

It seemed darker now, because his eyes needed to readjust. He could barely make out Charles folding the black jeans over his arm. Not enough light to see if his legs had the same kinds of old wounds.

Charles paused for a second – giving Nathan an unreadable look that made the vocalist suddenly uncomfortable enough to break eye contact – before picking up the crisp white shirt and unfolding it, shaking out the creases of many months of being in storage. A moment later he was just some guy in a white shirt and black boxers standing on a rooftop, tying a red tie in the dark.

The suit pants were next, one leg at a time, then pulled up and fixed in place with a belt. Nathan didn't look away for this part. He wondered how much of Charles was still that badass guy now that the suit was on.

For some reason the thought was an awkward one, as though he wasn't supposed to care. There wasn't a rule against it or anything… Charles was extremely important, but to the _band_, to the business end of things. Because fuck if they knew how to handle that stuff, even if Charles had said that they (Nathan, really – those other jackoffs had barely done anything) had done better than he'd expected. Who Charles was as a person was just some extra thing that didn't have much of an impact on anything as long as he did his job.

It probably only seemed important because he hadn't for the past nine months, Nathan told himself. That's why it was weird.

Charles pulled on his suit jacket, and slipped a pair of glasses out of one pocket and onto his face. From his other pocket he pulled a small comb and ran it quickly through his hair, tucking it back into place reasonably well. Out of his face, anyway.

He looked normal, except for the scar. Nathan was torn between staring and trying not to look at it.

"Well. Shall we go?"

"Uh." Nathan blinked. "What about those?" He pointed to the discarded outfit, the clothes lying in a neat stack by the boots.

"I'll send someone for them later. They're not very clean."

Charles walked past and opened the door to the stairs, then looked back at him.

"Nathan," he said gently. "We should be getting back."

"What? Oh, yeah…"

Nathan looked around the roof one more time, even though there really wasn't that much to look at. Not now, anyway. The concert was over, Charles was back. Everyone was going home.

He turned and followed Charles down the stairs.


End file.
